Quotes About Intimacy

For some reason it wasn't as hard to have her touch me, now that she knew my name. Her fingers were strong and brisk. I wondered who she went home to, whether she washed their hair for them in the shower or bath, if she knew how easy it would be to hurt me across the larynx with a shampoo bottle and watch me choke to death. I almost sat up.

I kissed her, and stroked the soft planes of flank and thigh, teased with a fingertip and breath and gaze, and when she shuddered like a kite on a long line, when she began to whip and plunge, when she begged me, I turned her and steadied her and let her loose. It was always the same. They flew and I flew, but to different places.

Her hand felt good in Peretur's, warm, more than warm.

Now his knowledge was her knowledge.

Have you kissed anyone? Boldcloak? Your gemæcce?" Hild shook her head. "Well, perhaps they were frightened of kissing the king's seer. But I'm not. I know what you need.

Bed games were one thing, keys another.

Gwladus smiled, that rich slow curve that blotted out everything but right here, right now, then leaned in and kissed her.

In the flickering ochre-and-gold light, Peretur saw the heat rise in Nimuë's cheeks, and her lips redder, and her own belly warmed, and she filled with another hunger.

She knew that scent, and her need rose like the tide.

She loved the firm pressure of Gwladus's hand on her crown, the steady strokes of the brush, and the scent of dried lavender and spicy tansy rising from her skirts.

How had she managed to get inside me, slip between my ribs and rest against my heart without me feeling it?

No one but a lover should ever see such an expression, and then only fleetingly, yet here it was, captured forever.

You're mine. You'll grow old in my household, die warm and well fed. You're my bodywoman. Some services I'll require, from time to time. But I won't…I won't.

While she watched, she let her own feet find their way; she knew every root, every rut and hare scrape, every fallen bough in this glade.

She looked him in the eye, the eyes she'd seen wide with lust, not with tears, shining with joy.

We could acknowledge it between us as long as it remained unspoken.

As she rode, her dreams filled with that yielding breast and warm breath and those luscious lips until she thought she might run mad.

Her lips were soft and plump as rain and Peretur wanted to plunge her hands deep into her golden yellow hair, deep under her skirts to the soft places beneath, and she could feel their hearts thundering like horss, like hoses yoked and racing together, pulling towards the same goal, beanth tearing in and out.

They reckon you feel love in your heart but that's bollocks. True love, the type what strikes you down and makes you change for ever, you feel that kind of love in every fucking organ inside you.

Quisiéramos no acariciar el cuerpo que amamos, sino ser la caricia.

The historical importance of a man rarely corresponds to his intimate nature. History is full of victorious morons.

Despite what is taught today, easy sex does not solve every problem. Sex does not solve even sexual problems.

This century has succeeded in turning sex into a trivial activity and an odious topic.

and they would imprint upon each other's lips such a long and languishing kiss, that a little straw cigar might have been smoked during the time it lasted.